


Down in Mexico

by StarsAreMassive



Series: Black and Yellow [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Drugs, Explicit Language, Gang Violence, M/M, Murder, Post-Canon, Prison Violence, Racism, post 9x06, prison boyfriends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAreMassive/pseuds/StarsAreMassive
Summary: Ian really needs to know what happened in Mexico.Mickey doesn't agree.





	1. Chapter 1

For the rest of his life, Ian wouldn’t be able to control the sneer he got whenever people called prisons _secure institutions_.

Oh yeah, totally secure. Prisoners stabbing each other with smuggled blades or shanks made from fucking toothbrushes was completely unheard of. He didn’t have to spend the grand part of his incarceration at Beckman Correctional holding his fellow inmates’ insides, well, _inside_ , because one guy didn’t like the way another had looked at him or breathed, or something. Sure, Leslie. _Secure_. Whatever you say.

Ian appreciated that he got to work in the infirmary. The guards never gave him too hard a time because he was a “trustee”. The other inmates didn’t fuck with him anymore than they would anyone else, because they were well aware it might be Ian cleaning them up the next time they got into a fight. That, and he was pretty good at getting his hands on painkillers, sleeping tablets and the lighter stuff that the overstretched prison medical staff didn’t keep as close an eye on. And Mickey definitely appreciated the perks of having a light-fingered cellmate/boyfriend who was around unsupervised pots of jello on the daily.

What Ian didn’t appreciate, was the blood and bile and fuck knows what else that stayed stuck under his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubbed. He didn’t appreciate that his palms would probably always be a little bit on the pink side because at this point, the blood of other prisoners had likely seeped in and stained his cells or some shit.

The latest shank-ee had been caught in the middle of a race beef between the peckerwoods and the Latinos. Ian wouldn’t go so far as to call him a ‘victim’ _per se_. He’d ripped up the leg of some Neo-Nazi fuck pretty good before the guy had stuck him, to the point where he’d been shipped off to general hospital for treatment instead of the prison infirmary. But still, his skin had lost that golden shine and was clammy to the touch. The skin was hot enough that the doc had ordered a round of antibiotics - which meant Ian had to make sure he ate so he could take the meds without throwing up. Having experiences that very thing himself only a couple dozen times, Ian could sympathise. Medicated vomit sucked.

So Ian wheeled the lunch cart that squeaked horrid and high pitched and rolled it in front of the guy’s bed. How he could still sleep through that sound was beyond Ian. He stood back and swatted at the guy at arm’s length. His experiences waking Milkoviches and cranky, temporarily unemployed Russian whores had taught him well.

“Hey - fella. Hey!” Ian hissed. “Wake the fuck up.”

The guy snorted and batted Ian’s hand away, muttering something in his sleep. But, Ian wasn't feeling too generous today. Maybe it was because it was the height of summer and the AC had crapped out in the infirmary about a week ago. Whatever it was, Ian threw a spork at the guy’s face. It hit the bridge of his nose with a satisfying, tiny, _dink_.

“ _Perra, te mato!_ ” Guy tried to lurch up outta the bed and come at Ian swinging. But the cuffs did their job and Guy crashed back down onto the bed with a pained yelp. He glowered at Ian, who waved at him cheerfully from his bedside.

“Hey!” he said brightly - smug, really. “Lunch.” Ian gestured at the tray of slop on the cart and the little tub of bright green jello. “If you don’t wanna throw up your meds later, I’d eat it - now. You won’t get nothing else ‘til dinner.”

Ian thrust the tray at Guy as he struggled to find the spork he’d sent flying and sit up. He scowled at the finest cuisine the prison kitchen had to offer, but dutifully began to scoop mouthfuls.

Guy muttered thickly as he ate. “ _Estúpido_. Watch it. You don’t know who you’re fucking with, man.”

Ian sidled to the foot of the bed and flicked through Guy’s totally confidential medical records. “Prisoner 01132,” he said smartly. “Well, 01132, I saw the state you left the other guy in, so I know enough.”

Guy looked bewildered. “So you throw a spoon at me?”

Ian shrugged. “A spork. And it was either that or I shook you awake and that seems like a bad idea in here, generally.”

Guy sniffed something grey on his tray - possibly potatoes - and set them back with a grimace before tearing into his biscuit instead. “Not as stupid as you look then, huh.”

“Nice. Real nice. I’ll let you take those pills on an empty stomach next time. See how you like that.”

Guy looked annoyed, but thankfully let it go. He considered Ian briefly, who for some reason he didn’t know was watching him eat. “So what,” he asked the redhead. “You that _racsita’s_ friend or something?” And then his eyes sparked as if he hadn’t really thought of that before. “You poison this shit, man?!”

Ian rolled his eyes and stood back behind the cart. There were other patients who needed their lunch, too. “Yeah. I’m going to risk an easy job, great perks, and getting out of here as soon as I possible can for an asshole like that. No I didn’t poison it, fool.”

Guy slumped into his pillows as something clicked in his head. “Nah man - you ain’t no Nazi,” he announced with conviction. “You’re cellmates with Milkovich, right?”  
  
That caught Ian’s attention. As a rule, Ian and Mickey had been keeping pretty much to themselves since their incarceration. Neither of them wanted to get in more trouble than absolutely necessary (and it was prison. Sometimes it was necessary), and Ian was positive he’d never seen Mick near any of the known gang members. Which this guy was - in a big way.

“Yeah,” he said, slowly, not really sure if he was liking the way Guy had suddenly perked up. “What’s it to ya?”

“Hey, relax, _hermano_.” Guy waved a cuffed hand as best he could. The chains were long enough to let him eat, but movement was still pretty restricted. “I just know that crazy motherfucker enough to know he don’t have time for Nazi fuckers. And you guys seem pretty tight.”

Ian ignored the teasing in Guy’s voice, focusing on the fact he knew Mick. If that shithead was getting involved with gangbangers, Ian was going to shank him himself. Especially Mexican gangbangers who might find out what he did to get landed in here in the the first place and harbour a little bit of a grudge.

So ignoring the fact that other patients were starting to crane their necks and call out, wondering where their lunch was, Ian lingered. “How do you know Mickey?”

Guy scoffed into the wet wipe he was allowed, and threw it onto the tray when he’d gotten rid of all the traces of his lunch. “Ask him yourself. He’s your cellmate.”

Ian didn’t really do well at hiding his emotions though, and Guy picked up on his agitation real quick. Reluctantly, he reassured him. “Hey man, Milkovich got nothing to fear from us. He did us a solid. We got his back until the day he walks out of here. That extends to you, too, _rojo_. Here,” he muttered as Ian stepped up. He shoved the little pot of green jello into the pocket of Ian’s jumpsuit. “Give that to Milkovich. Tell him Carlos says wassup.”

Ian wanted to ask more, but a bark from the nurse’s office told him he better move his ass. He gave Guy one last, suspicious as all fuck look, before the squeak of the cart started up again.

* * *

Later that day, once dinner was over, Mickey and Ian were relaxing in their cells. It was weird to say that - that anyone could relax in a prison cell. But it had become a bit of a bubble for them. They weren’t allowed to close the door, but here they mostly avoided any inquisitive stares of other inmates, anyone looking to start a fight over nothing, and could let themselves breathe just a little bit easier.

Mickey had been good enough that the warden had allowed him a small book of crossword puzzles. The older man had become obsessed with them, and it was something for them to do together to break the monotony. But Mickey had been scowling at the same puzzle for the past hour and his mutterings were becoming increasingly aggressive. To save the book, and to save Mickey a massive amount of regret later, Ian thought that was a good a time as any to distract him.

“Oh, hey,” he said, startling Mickey out of the book. “I almost forgot - got something for you today.”

Mickey’s grin was immediate. “Jello?”

“Mhmm,” Ian reach down the side of his mattress where he hid it. “The green kind.”

Ian tossed Mickey the pot and climbed into the bottom bunk with him, back to the wall and knees propped up in front of him. He watched Mickey fish out the spoon he hid in a small cut in Ian’s mattress above him and tear off the foil lid with delight.

Happy as he was though, Mickey couldn’t help but scold him a little. “Not that I ain’t grateful, but you can’t be stealing this shit for me too often. You’re gonna get caught.”

Ian scoffed, offended at the idea. “Well first off, fuck you. And second, I didn’t steal it, asswipe. It’s from Carlos.”

Mickey stilled, spoon half way to his mouth and the jello threatening to fall off. He gave Ian a hard look. But Ian was used to those looks, and they weren’t half as intimidating as Mickey thought they were. Not to him anyway. “So,” he gave Mickey’s leg a light kick. “Who the fuck is Carlos?”

Mickey stuffed the last spoonful into his mouth - there was barely anything in those tragic fucking pots - and stashed the evidence. They’d sneak it out later, somehow. He picked his book up and pretended to get engrossed all over again, which would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been looking at it upside down.

“Carlos,” Mickey spat, “No idea. Nobody.”

Ian could not have rolled his eyes hard enough. “Well which is it? No idea, or nobody?”

Mickey cursed at himself and, with a sigh, set down the puzzle book. “Nobody,” he said softly, not quite looking at Ian. “Just one of the gangbangers here.”

“Uhuh I know that. He was in the infirmary today. Told me he knew you, and that you and I had nothing to worry about.”

“Gallagher -”

“Oh, and he also says _wassup_.”

“Just sh-”

“Whatever the fuck you’re doing, knock it off, Mick. Are you trying to stay in here for life?”

And Ian was on a roll now. He’d been sitting on this all afternoon, and now they had a modicum of privacy, he sure as shit was going to give Mickey hell for putting their last chance in jeopardy.

“I know your sentence is longer than mine, but you promised you’d do what you could to get it reduced. Good behaviour and all that.”

“I know I did -”

“Was that bullshit? Have you changed your mind?” Ian steadfastly ignored how hysterical he just sounded. It was valid question.

“Jesus Christ, no -”

“Because if you have, just tell me. Tell me. Just say it.”

“I haven’t changed my fucking mind! Holy fuck, just shut the _fuck_ up for ten goddamn seconds!”

Ian was reluctantly cowed into silence. But his jaw worked over time, his feet tapped Mickey’s sheets and his arms were crossed in front of his chest - a stance that Mickey matched.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said, gentler this time. “I ain’t getting involved with any gangs. I ain’t doing any deals. I’m keeping my nose as clean as you are, I promise.”

Ian felt little of the tightness release in his chest and gave Mickey an anxious smile. “Okay. Okay, I believe you,” he said. “But how do you know him? I definitely didn't get any vibes off him so I know it's not _that_ -”

“Oh fucking, _no_!”

“- but then what it is?”

“Ian.” And that right there got Ian’s attention. Even now, the times Mickey called him by his name were few and far between. Ian looked at him and and saw the soft and slightly pleading look his boyfriend was giving him. “Just drop it. Please. I knew him from before, that’s all.”

And then the other shoe dropped, and Ian leaned forward. “In Mexico?”

Mickey nodded and picked up the stub of a pencil he’d been using for his crossword, and Ian knew the conversation was over. For now. Mickey had been tight lipped about what had happened after Ian had left him at the border, and Ian was desperate to know how Mickey was here with him right now. He was going to find out what happened in Mexico - he vowed it to himself then and there. And he was fairly sure Mickey had come to the same conclusion, too. Ian read it in the tightness is his shoulders and the shifty looks he got every now and then. Although he could go ask Carlos, Ian knew he didn't want to hear it from anyone but Mickey. So he let it drop. He stretched his legs as close to Mickey’s as he could without touching. That was a step too far until lights out and no one could see. But the quick smile that flashed across Mickey’s lips told him the gesture was noted and appreciated.

He’d give him a reprieve for the night. But come sun up tomorrow, it was game on.


	2. Poor Young Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian embraces his inner stalker. It has mixed results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To celebrate the new intro (!), I thought I'd update this bad boy.   
> Rated for swearing and general 'shameless' language. 
> 
> Laced papers refers to a method of smuggling in liquid based drugs like acid. The papers would be soaked in the drug and prisoners would eat the paper to get high.

Ian was starting to think that Mickey’s survival in the South Side was less down to his guile and smarts, and more down to sheer dumb luck. In the South Side, if a six foot redhead in a bright yellow jumpsuit was following you around, you fuckin’ noticed. Then you lured him into the nearest alley and bashed his head against the brickwork.

But he’d been following Mickey around for the better part of an hour and that beautiful fucker hadn’t noticed a thing. Ian was equal parts relieved and furious. On one hand, Ian could snoop to his heart’s content. On the other - how could he be so stupid? What if instead of his boyfriend, it was one of those Neo-Nazi punks who were all put out when Mickey had refused to join their club (' _Gang, Ian. It’s a gang. Not a fuckin’ club, Jesus Christ._ ')? Or what if it was a friend of Terry’s looking to do his old pal a favour and beat on his faggot son? Or what if the cartel Mickey screwed over had contacts on the inside? The love of his life would be wandering around this prison none the wiser.

But as horrifying as that thought was, it was a problem for another day. Today was day one of find-out-whatever-the-fuck-went-down-in-Mexico.

Ian would happily admit to himself that he’d spent enough time watching Mickey walk away to recognise each different walk he had. There was the swaggering, _I know you’re watching me, come get it_ walk, which was a personal favourite. There was the foot stomping, _someone’s about the get fucked up stride_ , which was kind of a default setting for his Mick. And there was the tried and tested, _if my ass gets caught by the police one more time it’s getting thrown back in the slammer_ walk - which was Mickey at his slipperiest, sneakiest, best. It was this walk, with its twists and turns, deceptively fast and never once looking back, that Ian was witnessing as Mickey roamed the prison.

Ian was no rookie. Oblivious as Mickey was acting, Ian still had to be careful not to get caught. How the fuck was he supposed to explain stalking his boyfriend in prison? So, occasionally he’d fall back, let a few people get in between him and his man, nod at his fellow convicts or slap someone over the back whenever a guard looked too close - but he didn’t lose sight, not once. Until eventually, finally, Mickey stopped. Ian couldn’t very well peer around the wall at him. The guards would spot that right away and haul his ass off. Instead, he looped back, got a few people between ‘em, and watched through the gaps in the bodies.

He saw Mickey greet a small group of guys with a nod and a quick handshake. They were Mexican, just like Carlos, and Ian thought he saw the same tattoo on them, too. Ian watched as they shot the shit for a few minutes, joking around - which was weird enough since Mickey wasn’t exactly Mr Sociable. That was, until he caught the tell-tale glances looking for guards, the wall of guys that totally didn’t look like a wall, doing their best to conceal Mickey and that one guy from prying eyes. So, buddy-acting then. Pretending for the sake of anyone who might be watching too closely. Theoretically, Ian understood that. Prison was prison and no one lived like a saint here. But seeing Mickey up to some shit with his own eyes? Nuh-uh. No fuckin’ way.

Ian had damn near blown a blood vessel the first time Mickey had gotten in trouble after they had been locked up together. Ian had been working in the kitchen at the time. He’d been there for a few weeks, and had just moved up from dish washing to some basic meal prep as the guards were mostly sure he wasn’t going to knife anybody. It was after the dinner shift one day (Ian wasn’t sure what day, exactly. They’d started to bleed together, just like everyone said they would). He trudged pathetically back to his cell, wanting nothing more than to doze off on his bunk, listening to Mickey muttering beneath him and cursing about working in the laundry as usual (” _Disgusting motherfuckers, man. Not enough bleach in the damn world._ ”). Except, when he got there, Mickey was holding a soggy lump of toilet paper to the side of his head, steadily staining red with blood. And that was the least of it. One eye was purpling and swollen. His neck had a rash of red around it, and his teeth, which Ian could see because Mickey was grimacing, were stained pink.

“What the _fuck_?!”

Mickey at least had the decency to look a little scolded. His nose twitched, he pressed his lips together, and looked down at the ground. Ian hastily threw to door to their cell closed and marched over to Mickey. Grabbing his shoulders Ian bullied him over to his bunk. Mickey shrugged his hands off, scoffed and sighed, but let Ian sit him down. Ian peeled the toilet paper away and sucked a breathe between his teeth.

“Jesus, Mickey. What the hell happened?”

Mickey still wasn’t looking at him and mumbled. “Nothin’”

“Oh,lemme fucking guess, you fell? That it, tough guy?” Ian seethed. He prodded the gash on the side of Mickey’s head harder than necessary, gauging the depth. Mickey, maybe for once in his life knowing what was good for him and making a smart decision, sat quietly and let Ian do what he wanted. He turned Mickey’s head this way and that. Luckily the cut didn’t look too deep. But it was wider than he would’ve liked. Not for the first time, Ian wished he’d traded with some of the guys from the infirmary for some butterfly stitches or gauze to stash away for emergencies. They were always marked up pretty steep though; he guessed no one wanted to risk a decent job with access to meds and other high-grade collateral without getting a half decent payout for it. Ian still remembered the first time he’d overheard them bartering with some poor guy near homicidal over some toothache. He bitched out the dentistry profession to the infirmary guy, and just wanted some pain killers. It had cost him a whole pack of smokes for one measly pill. But, pretty much all of Ian’s commissary money and trading power (and a healthy chunk of Mickey’s) went towards the food he needed to balance out the effects of his pills; energy drinks for when they made him sluggish, crackers for when they made him nauseous, and chocolate when he just needed that extra endorphin boost. So, when it came to medical supplies, band-aids, some thread and a sketchy needle were about all they had.

Ian cleaned up Mickey’s head as best he could and slapped the band-aid over the worst of it. “Keep it clean, asshole.”

And then, Mickey sulked. He burrowed into his bunk with his back against the wall as Ian tidied up the mess of water, blood, and cheap toilet paper Mickey had left in his wake. Ian ignored the fuck out of him, but he caught Mickey throwing glances at him when he thought he wasn’t looking - a classic Mickey-tell when he was feeling guilty. After flushing away the last of it, Ian clambered up to his bunk and picked up the gossip rag he’d gotten from one of the fellas in the kitchen. He’d never been a celebrity hound, and a few months on the inside hadn’t changed that. But if he got lucky, maybe Justin Timberlake would appear in ‘em one of these days. He left his foot dangling over the side like usual, and after a few tense, silent minutes, when the sound of Ian flicking the page felt too loud, a warmth wrapped around his ankle and rubbed soothingly over the sharp bone.

Ian sighed. “Mickey -”

“M’sorry, man.” And shit if Ian wasn’t just a sucker for the gravelly, morose, apologies of a contrite Milkovich.

Neither of them made an attempt to look at each other. Mickey was still hidden away under his bunk, and Ian was still half laid out over his. But Ian knew to take the attempt to communicate for what it was.

“What were you thinking?”

Mickey didn’t answer right away - just continued to swipe and rub at his ankle. Probably thinking of a response that was less likely to get him kicked in the face.

“I didn’t go startin’ a fight if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Well you didn’t get cut for minding your own damn business, did you?”

Mickey huffed and muttered, “No.”

Ian set the magazine down and bit down on his gut reaction to chew Mickey out. “Then what were you doing?”

Mickey trailed his hands up and under Ian’s pant leg, his finger tips dancing along the fine hairs there and Ian absolutely did not get a shiver at how good it felt.

“I was just - I don’t know man. Roberts needed a favour and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“A good idea?!” Ian couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Roberts was involved in all kinds of shady shit - one of those sorts who ran the prison and could get away with a whole lotta shit so long as he didn’t do it right in front of the guards. Even they couldn’t overlook that shit. Drugs, prohibited items, sex, weapons - you name it, Roberts had his hand on it. And now, apparently, on Mickey, too. “That fucker has the whole damn prison and his beck and call - what the fuck did he need with you? What could possibly have made you think that was a good idea - “

“We needed a cushion, alright! Some cash after last month, you know.”

Ian snapped his mouth shut. Last month when Ian had been on a down swing - his first since coming to Beckman. Last month when Mickey had spent all his money on Ian after Ian had spent all of his own. Last month when an extra blanket was all that helped Ian keep his head above water at lights out, and he had never asked where it came from. Last month when Mickey laid by his side even when Ian was sure he had to be at work in the laundry. Yeah, Ian remembered last month.

“Besides, Roberts knows how to get anything in here, including medicine. We both know the docs in here ain’t gonna sit with you and help you log symptoms so you can get on the right stuff. Just, if we ever need to try somethin’ else, then…”

Ian’s eyes burned, his stomach felt like lead, and his head thumped hard inside his chest. He didn’t know when the day would come that Mickey would stop doing dangerous, stupid, shit in Ian’s name, but apparently it wasn’t today. It was the part of his disorder he couldn’t stand, the worry and fear it caused in everyone else. It’s what had led to them throwing fists at the dugouts back when Ian was struggling to stay medicated. It’s what had led to that shit show of a day on the Gallagher porch, his mind full of Monica as he shattered both their hearts all over the sidewalk. It was the one thing that still made that little voice pipe up in the back of his head that maybe, maybe, he should flush the pills. Because at least when he was manic he didn’t see the looks his family kept giving him. He would never do it - at least he hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to. That was what counted. And Mickey would do anything to help him - even if it made Ian wanna strangle him.

Mickey tugged his ankle. “Hey, you there?” Blue eyes finally peered up over the lip of Ian’s bunk.

Ian kicked out, grabbed the magazine and lobbed it between Mickey’s eyes. He dived back under but Ian jumped over the edge and followed him down.

“You are so fuckin’ stupid!” Ian straddled him, grabbed him by the jumpsuit and shook Mickey as hard as he could.

“Ay, ay!”

“Ya goddamn moron! The fuck is wrong with you?! Jesus, Mickey!”

“The fuck, Ian?!”

Mickey shifted his weight, got a leg between Ian’s and pushed him off. Ian kicked him, his foot landing perilously closed to Mickey’s dick, who yelped and covered the goods.

“Watch it - fuckin’ cool it, man!”

They laid there at opposite ends of Mickey’s bunk, panting, legs entangled, Ian eyeing Mickey furiously.

“That shit stops now, you hear me?” He ordered.

“It ain’t that simple -”

“Oh yes it fucking is! I say it stops, it stops. Mick, we don’t need that shit.”

Mickey scoffed by Ian ran right over him. “We don’t. Look,” he sat up straighter and leaned forward, staring Mickey down. “I know you were tryin’ to do ‘the right thing’ or whatever, but going to Roberts was just fuckin’ stupid. He could’ve had you doing anything.”

Mickey grimaced. “I was just supposed to be a delivery boy. Some laced newspapers got through, so.”

“Yeah, and what happened.”

Mickey rubbed his lips. “Same thing as always. Some mook didn’t wanna pay.”

“So you got your face busted instead, right? Except what if it had been a stabbing. What if they’d had a shank and stuck it between your ribs, huh? What then?”

Mickey threw his hands up and looked away - the wall, the door, anywhere but Ian. But Ian reached out, gripped his chin, and forced Mickey to look at him. “We don’t need that shit. Alright? I don’t need that shit. Yeah the prison doc’s meds ain’t great but they keep me on the level most of the time. It’ll do until we get out of here. That’s what I need. I need to get outta here, and I need you to come with me.”

Mickey's breath hitched. 

“You can’t come with me if you get more time for dealing inside, or whatever else shit heads like Robert’s want you to do. We don’t need ‘em.”

The famous Milkovich brow finally arched and mickey smirked at him. “Just you and me, huh?”

“Like it’s ever been any different. You and me. No illegal shit whilst we’re in here. Let’s just get our time served and get the hell out. Deal?”

Mickey’s hand found his ankle again - the one furthest away from the view from the door - and rubbed those small soothing circles.

“Deal”

* * *

Ian didn’t know if he felt more angry or guilty watching Mickey push something into one kid’s hands. He couldn’t see the trade off, but he hoped whatever Mickey got in return for whatever he was doing was worth it. Ian was going to unleash hell.

Business concluded, Mickey swaggered off, heading back down the corridor towards Ian. Ian slipped behind a wall of burly guys until Mickey stepped on by, and rushed on light feet after him.

“Hey, Milkovich!” he called out. Mickey’s head turned so quick Ian expected to hear a snap. His eyes widened in his patented “ _Oh, shit_ ” expression. Yeah, oh shit is right. “S’up, man?” He said casually, strolling up to Mickey’s side and started walking side by side.

Mickey coughed and scrubbed the back of his head with a tattooed hand. “Gallagher. What’re you doin’ here?”

Ian leaned in close so only Mickey could hear and hissed, “Really? That’s what you wanna ask me? How about what’re you doin’ here - you smuggling shit again?”

Mickey glared at him but didn’t break stride. “You followin’ me now?”

“Or are you just catching up with some old buddies from Mexico - huh? Carlos locked up around here?” Mickey elbowed him hard in the ribs. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Keep your damn voice down. Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

“You said. We had a deal, Mick. You know I hate you gettin’ involved in shit - especially with the Mexican’s. How do you know they ain’t from the cartel you rolled on? Didn’t you say they didn’t all have the tattoos and shit? Do you know what those guys do to snitches, christ -”

“Yes I fuckin’ know!” Mickey turned on him, eyes glinting. “I know just fine what those guys do to snitches - a whole lot better than you do. Do you think I’m stupid? No, wait, don’t answer that. You’ve made that perfectly clear a thousand times already.”

Mickey turned on his heel and marched back down the corridor. They were nearing the staircase that took them back to their own cell, but Mickey walked straight passed it as Ian dashed after him. “Mick. _Mick_.” He hissed at his heel.

“Jesus, just,” Mickey finally stopped and pushed Ian down onto an empty step and stood in front o him, arms folded. He kept his voice low so no one could over hear them, and kept a watchful eye in case anyone came or looked too close. “Trust me, I ain't gonna do a damn thing to rat myself out. I fuckin’ saw exactly what happened to anyone that seemed even a little bit twitchy, alright. Shit makes me sick to my stomach.”

And just like that Ian felt his anger receding - a warm thrum lacing his skin instead of a roiling heat in his belly. But Mickey didn’t notice or didn’t care. He propped himself against the wall, looking to everyone else like he was having a casual chat with his cellmate, doing a bit of people watching. But Ian could see the tension lining that body he knew so well, as if Mickey was bracing himself for something.

“It was just fuckin’ math.”

If his freedom was at stake, Ian would never have guessed that was what Mickey was going to say. “Huh?”

“Math. Division, fractions, pythagoras and all that shit?”

“The fuck do you mean pythagoras?”

Mickey nearly smiled. “There’s a uh, a kid,” he said, shrugging. “He’s working on getting his GED inside. Says he wants nothin’ to do with the life once he’s outta here, and some of his brothers like him enough to help him out. Except he’s fuckin’ hopeless at numbers. So he’s been asking me to take a look at some shit for him.”

“You mean, like, cheating?”

And of all the things Mickey had been accused of in his life, Ian had rarely seen him look so offended.

“No, not like fuckin’ cheating. Like, I don't know, homework or somethin'.”

Ian felt the last of his anger bleed away and a different kind of warmth spread over him. “Mick,” he murmured. “Are you tutoring a kid in math to save him from a life of crime?”

Mickey flipped him off and a wide, fond grin spread over Ian’s face until the guilt he’d briefly entertained earlier came flickering back.

“Hey,” he toed Mickey’s shin - the closest he dared to get outside of their cell. “I’m sorry I followed you.”

Mickey snorted. “No, you ain’t. You’re just sorry ya feel like an asshole right now.”

“Well, yeah,” Ian glanced around to make sure no one was near by. “But I’ll make it up to you later.”

That finally make Mickey grin, beautiful and wide with perfect white teeth on show - Ian’s favourite smile for how rare it was. Ian just enjoyed looking at him for a few moments. He always knew Mickey was so much more that he showed most people - even Ian himself a lot of the time. But he always loved being reminded of it, always so impressed with the man Mickey was now after everything he’d been through. Fuck knows he had no one there to teach him how to be good and kind.

“There were, a lot of kids like him, back in Mexico.” Mickey spoke slow and halting, like he wasn’t really sure he wanted to say what was coming out of him mouth. So Ian sat patient and listened.

“I was down in a place called Matamoros near the coast. It was loud. Colourful. Ton of old buildings so parts of it were kinda nice to look at. But it was rough as fuck. One of the highest kidnapping rates in Mexico, you know that?”

Ian shook his head.

“So kids were getting snatched right off the street. Not just Mexican kids either. The amount of tourists that came into the port was insane. Undocumented workers too coming into the factories. Anyways, there was this one kid, right? Could barely speak a word of English but asked me to call him Joe. Fuckin’ Joe, right. He was brought in and I was told to take him with me on runs; show him the ropes, that kind of thing. He was nervous as fuck and he kept reaching into his pocket - like he wouldn’t stop. Made me twitchy as fuck, so the next time he does it, I grab his arm and I’m looking for a gun or something. It just a fuckin’ camera. A shitty digital camera. So he shows me all these movies he’s been makin’ on it. Turns out all he wanted was to be a camera man. Not an actor, or a director, or anything like that. Just a camera man.”

Mickey paused and licked his lips, and Ian wasn’t entirely sure Mickey was here in the prison with him, and not on some street with this kid in Mexico.

“I told him to cool it when he was on jobs. The Gulf Cartel don’t fuck around, you know. But I had to go deliver an order and Joe got placed with some other guy. When I get back with the money, I see the guy covered in blood, but there’s no sign of Joe, right? So I ask him where’s the kid at? Fucker just laughs at me and points me to a door. And I just - I fuckin’ knew nothin’ good was on the other side.”

“Mick,” Ian whispered.

“But fuck me, right? I open it, like a moron, and Joe’s strapped to a chair, a fuckin’ mangled mess. Back of his head smashed open like a melon. Fingernails are all over the floor. And that fuckin’ camera was hanging over the back of the chair.”

And what the fuck could Ian say to that? He used to entertain himself, fantasising of the perfect life Mickey had to be having in Mexico. Because the alternative was just not fucking acceptable. But acceptable or not, turns out that was Mickey’s life for years. It wasn’t an easy thing for Ian to swallow, and he knew that poor Joe just barely scratched the surface.

So, when Mickey kicked off the wall, gripped his shoulder and said, “I’m going back to the cell, man. I’ll catch you later,” Ian was barely able to murmur back, “See ya,” before he was left along on those steel stairs.

Fuckin' Mexico. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's luck runs out and Mickey gives him the truth.

He would give it to the Nazis - they were determined fuckers. 

Each day on his way to the infirmary, Ian passed a small cluster of them seated round a table. What did you call a cluster of Nazis, anyway? A rally? A brotherhood? A cunt - a cunt of Nazis? Yeah, that sounded about right. 

But they sat there everyday like clockwork, at first just watching Ian walk by. Then they graduated to catcalling - nothing too bad since Ian was usually escorted by a guard. Then they took to distracting the guard, usually with a punch up, so they could slip notes into his hand. 

_Oxy. 40 tabs._

_Morphine. 2 bot._

_Scalpel. Syrg. Blood thinners._

_Vicos. AMAP._

He’d expected it - been told that it would happen by the other cons who worked with him. Living on South Side, Ian had seen and tried his share of drugs, but nothing compared to what he saw in prison. Whatever your poison, sure as shit it was lying in someone’s cell somewhere. You’d think then, that they wouldn’t need shit from the infirmary, but Ian guessed having cons ‘on the inside’ was too tempting to resist. Lou, a chubby, salt-and-pepper 52 year old convicted of burglary and assault, had shown him the ropes when he first started. Lou had told him straight. “ _You sure gotta look after you. No other guy’s gonna do that for you. But best find a way to do what they want while you’re at it. Y’don’t wanna know what they’ll do to you if you say no, boy. Few extra months on your sentence for distribution if y’say you were coerced might not look so bad_.”

Ian liked Lou. He did, But he could go fuck himself. He wasn’t doing extra time for nobody. 

He must have had a touch of Irish luck about him, because some fuckin’ how he’d so far managed to avoid those punks apart from the crowded, guard-ridden corridors where they couldn’t do shit. He’d meant to mention it to Mickey, see if they could put their heads together because he wasn’t stupid. Ian knew he’d have to deal with them eventually. But he thought it best to buy some time to try and come up with a way to break it to his boyfriend so he wouldn’t declare war on Beckman’s contingent of asshole peckerwoods.

Ian was contemplating all this during yard time. Mick hadn’t been feeling too hot for a couple of days, so was laying down in their cell. Ian was left to work some weights with a few of the guys he could tolerate, but whether it was anxiety over the situation he’d managed to get himself into, or if he was coming down with a touch of whatever Mickey had, Ian wasn’t feelin’ it. He set the weights down, and endured the jeers of, _“Grow a pussy today, Red?”, “Don’t break a nail there, sweetheart”, “You need a big strong man to protect you, Gallagher, you knew where to find me.”_ They laughed as he waved them off and shrugged his tank back on. 

Ian sighed and raked a hand through his hair. He was getting nowhere trying to solve this on his own. He was gonna go back to the cell and as soon as Mickey was firing on all cylinders again, he’d tell him everything. 

But Ian wasn’t able to bask in the comfort of his resolution. Like some fucked up divine intervention, as soon as the thought had come to him, hands - so many hands - grabbed at his arms. Ian tried to yank them back but he was pushed and bullied him into a corner - that corner where the guards had to remember to look, and the camera’s couldn’t catch in their blindspot, and the whole yard knew that was where to go when you had to settle some business. 

And there was only one group of guys who had any business with Ian. He’d been so zoned out he hadn’t even noticed where he was or who was around him. Fuck. Mickey was going to kill him if these guys didn’t do it first. 

The cold of the cinderblock wall hit his back and Ian was faced with a semi-circle of guys - skinheaded and covered in swastikas and German iron cross tattoos. How the fuck you were supposed to tell one apart from the other, Ian had no idea. 

They were all smirking and sneering at him, hanging just slightly behind the one with the biggest belly and a few throat tats. He puffed on some rancid brand of cigarettes and puffed the smoke in Ian’s face. 

“You been avoiding us, Paddy?”

Paddy. Like he’d ever stepped foot in Ireland in his life. The closest he got to it was the Alibi on St Patrick’s Day. But, even though Ian had done some stupid things in his life, he wasn’t an idiot and kept those thoughts to himself. Instead he threw his hands up, placating. “Hey, fellas. Easy. I don’t know - “

Except they didn’t wanna be placated. 

Big Belly shoved him back into the wall - like Ian could back up anymore. He grabbed the front of Ian’s tank and got up in his face. Ian could smell his shitty breathe as he spat, “Where the fuck are our drugs?”  
  
Ian was no pussy - never had been - and prison hadn’t changed that. He pushed against the hand gripping him, kicking against the wall for leverage and pushed his forearm against the guy’s throat. “Fuck off, Adolf. I ain’t pushin’ no drugs.”

A chorus of chuckles came from the guys around him and Ian had a split second to realise shit was about to go down before they converged on him like a pack of dogs. Ian slammed his forehead into Big Belly’s nose, and felt the satisfying crunch as it burst open. He kicked him in the stomach and threw an elbow catching someone in the eye, before he was absolutely fucked. Two of them started punching his ribs, whilst another got his meaty arm around Ian’s neck and started choking him out. Ian fought against his gut reaction to kick his feet as his airways constricted. If he lost his feet he was fuckin’ dead. He managed to get his teeth into the arm holding him and was released with a howl, and his ribs screamed as he punched a knee into one dude’s balls. Ian couldn’t help but hunch and clutch at his side, and saw the boot coming from his periphery a second too late. He felt the stun of it connecting with his temple and he went down on his knees. His arms were pinned to his sides and he was hauled to his feet. Big Belly had gotten up, and retrieved some knuckle dusters on the way. They were nasty lookin’ things and Ian idly thought Mickey would quite like them. Basic brass knuckles welded with bits of scrap metal, intended for only one thing. 

Lights sparked in front of Ian’s eyes as he struggled to focus. Big Belly slipped on the knuckles and skinhead number two holding him on his left, yanked him, jolting him back upright as his head started to droop. 

“You’re not that new around here, kid,” said Big Belly. “You’ve been here long enough to know how things work. You think you’re better than us? That you can just keep your nose clean, do your time, and get out to play house with your fag boyfriend?”

A stinking, hairy hand gripped Ian’s hair and yanked his head back, stretching his throat enough to make him cough and his eyes water. He had to fight to watch Big Belly pull his arm back slowly, setting up a punch that Ian knew was going to do some serious damage. The angle of the elbow said he was aiming high, like Ian’s perfectly exposed throat kind of high. 

“I’ll make it real clear for you. We’re gonna put you in that infirmary, and you’re going to steal us whatever we need - “ and here Big Belly got real close again and Ian gagged at his breath, “Or next time, you’ll be on a steel fucking table instead of a nice, comfy hospital bed.”

With the grand exception of his first steps in Beckman, Ian had never really felt afraid here. A large reason for that was Mickey. Together, they were able to finish most shit before it even started and helped keep each other outta trouble. But Mickey wasn’t here - no one could see them. No one could hear them. And for the first time, Ian felt alone and afraid. It was enough to have him thrashing, the guys holding him down fighting to keep him still. Spittle flew from Ian’s lips as he tried to yell, whimper - anything to get someone’s attention. But nothing got out. Big Belly sighed and shook his head at Ian’s display like he was disappointed in him, before cocking his elbow back, preparing to strike. 

“No tan rápido, pequeño hijo de puta!”

A rush of footfalls flooded towards them, and Ian was dropped like a bad habit. He heaved through his abused throat and in his dazed relief, saw those skinhead motherfuckers tossed around like dolls by one of the Mexican gangs. It was brief and brutal, and before long, Ian was hauled to his feet and dusted off, before a round of vigorous claps on his back nearly sent him tumbling again. 

“Tómalo con calma, hombre,” one of them laughed. Ian knew that voice. Carlos. It was Carlos. “You’d think you’d be steady on those long ass legs of yours, pecas. Instead you’re like Bambi, huh?”

“Ca-Carlos,” Ian hacked out his name. “The fuck are you doing here?”

One of the other guys pushed him teasing, and ruffled his hair. “No thank you, Bambi?”

Fuckin’ Bambi, Jesus Christ. This day kept gettin’ better. 

“I - yeah. Yeah,” and fuck, Ian was thankful. So thankful that he made a show of leaning over to catch his breath, to hide his shaking hands. “Thanks. I’d say I had it, but -”

“But you were about to get your ass kicked,” Carlos was way too smug. “Marcus, take Gallagher back to his cell, yeah.”

Marcus - who’ ruffled his hair - started to push Ian towards the rest of the yard, but Ian planted his feet and faced Carlos. “What do you want? For this, what do you want?”

Carlos studied him, brown eyes inscrutable. Ian knew he might be getting himself into even more trouble, but he ploughed on anyway. God, he was so dead when Mickey found out. “I didn’t steal drugs for them and I’m not stealin’ drugs for you. So if that’s what you want the-”

Carlos slapped him - well, it was less of a slap and more a tap right on the cheek just to shut him up. But he was smirking at Ian, and shaking his head like the redhead had said something funny. “Don’t even worry about it, man. You and me are already square.” And with that he nodded at Marcus over Ian’s shoulder, and he was pulled away. 

No one batted an eye as they left the yard and weaved their way to Ian and Mickey’s cell. Before he knew it, they were standing in front of cell A20, and Marcus was pushing Ian through the door. Any hope he had that Mickey might not be there, or might be sleeping when Ian came back was dashed all to hell as he sat perched on his bunk staring wide-eyed between Marcus and Ian. 

Marcus patted Ian on the shoulder and grinned at Mickey. “Milkovich. Might wanna keep a better eye on Bambi here, _si no quieres que su bonita cara sea golpeada_. Carlos might start charging you soon,” he teased before turning tail and vanishing where he came from. 

Mickey was still staring at Ian. Ian had expected Mickey would probably rip him a new one, defame his character and intelligence, or worst case scenario go barrelling from their cell to start hell with the skinheads. Something with Mickey’s typical flair and drama. He didn’t expect silence and a steady gaze as Ian trudged towards him, all busted up, and threw himself next to him. 

After a few beats, Mickey sniffed. It sounded thick and heavy and Ian felt a pang of sympathy. Mickey side eyed him, pursed his lips, and ran his hand over his hair. 

“So I guess the peckerwoods caught up to you?”

Ian felt the air rush out his chest and gaped at Mickey. Seriously, how the fuck? “How the fuck did you know about that?”

Mickey didn’t laugh. Just huffed and scowled at Ian. “You did a bang up job avoiding them, I’ll give you that. Who do you think they looked for when they couldn’t find you?”

Here Ian had been worrying for weeks how to tell Mickey, and the shit head had known all along. “Then what - Mick, the fuck?! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you didn’t! Fuck man, I learned my lesson last time. I gotta give you time to come to me with shit before jumpin’ down your throat about it.”

It hadn’t been Mickey’s intention, but Ian felt the flush of shame settle on him. Last time. When Mickey had tried to take care of him and Ian had ran as fast as he could the other way, putting them both through hell. 

Mickey let his thigh touch Ian’s briefly. An apology, he thought. “I figured I’ve give you a chance to figure this out on your own. Hoped you’d come to me before it got to this, though,” he studied Ian’s injuries carefully. Eventually, he turned to face Ian, reached out and guided Ian’s leg to rest on the bed and shuffled closer to him. Ian turned as best he could, too, and gently Mickey felt along his ribs, assessing the damage. 

As his fingertips tapped along, Mickey finally asked, “Carlos and his guys help you out?” 

Ian grit his teeth as Mickey found a particularly sensitive spot. “Yeah. You - _fuck_ , be careful Mick. You gonna tell me what the deal with him is now?”

Mickey’s hands stilled and he watched Ian for a moment, contemplating. Ian didn't want him to duck out of the question this time. He’d gotten caught in the middle of something, and felt he deserved to know. 

“Mick,” he breathed. “Carlos told me we’re square.”

Mickey nodded, coming to a decision at last before he reached behind Ian and got some toilet paper, their emergency plasters, and some vaseline. His rough hands cupped Ian’s jaw as he started to clean up the blood - just like Ian had done for him many times before. 

“You remember that cartel I rolled on?” Mickey’s voice was low, gravelly, and soothing. Ian could only nod. 

“Carlos and his guys were from a rival cartel. What I did - it took out a lot of their competition.”

The pieces finally started locking together in Ian’s mind. “They protect you because you did them a favour.”

Mickey hummed. “Not really. I didn’t do it for them - didn’t even really know that much about them. They weren’t playin’ on the same league as the guys I joined up with. The Gulf cartel did everything - human trafficking, arms, drugs - everything. Left a hell of a gap in the market when a bunch of ‘em got sent down, though.”

Ian let the silence settle for a while, content to watch Mickey as he sorted his thoughts and methodically cleaned him and patched him up. The ribs would have to wait until he could fake a fall and get looked at in the infirmary, but he’d work on that tomorrow. 

Mickey tossed the used tissues aside - Ian would have to remember to pick them up later - and smeared some vaseline on the worst cuts. Before he could pull away, Ian rested his forehead against Mickey’s and they breathed together. 

“What was it like?” Ian whispered. 

Mickey started haltingly at first but kept their foreheads together. “It, uh, it was. I don’t know. It was a lot. Could barely undertstand a word, so I couldn’t really get a job anywhere. So I got hungry. Got lonely. As warm as it was during the day, it was a bitch at night.”

Ian blinked at him. “Mick, I gave you that money for a reason -”

“Yeah and I couldn’t look at it for fuckin’ weeks, man. Not ‘til I got desperate. I’m lucky I didn’t do something stupid like set that shit on fire. All I could think about was - well.”

Ian nodded and tried to push himself closer. 

“I was sittin’ in this bar, right? They let me work a few nights a week, for fuckin’ dimes man, but it was better than nothin’. These guys walk in, and my Spanish had gotten a bit better, so I get the gist of what they’re sayin’. One of them’s just a kid - coupla years younger than me. They’re doin’ some kind of deal - coke, I think - and the older guy is runnin’ through numbers real fast, except they don’t add up. The kid’s just noddin’ along like a fucking tool. He can’t keep up and this fuckin’ guy is fleecing him real good.”

Ian kinda suspected where this was going. His guy couldn't help himself, sometimes. “You didn’t.”

“Damn right I did. The kid had a Rolex on and there's me, bustin’ my ass making barely enough to buy a burrito. Moron. So I set his beer down, and keep the older guy’s back. He starts cussin’ me out, so I tell him, you can get your damn beer when you tell the kid you’re robbing him fucking blind.”

Ian chuckled and shook his head, his nose accidentally rubbing against Mickey’s. 

“Only, I didn’t really think about the fall out. Kid flips his shit, Ian. Grabs his beer and smashes it over his head. Two heavies in the corner jump forward and drag the poor fucker out and the kids turns to me and tosses down a like, three hundred buck tip. He makes a few calls then just sits back at the bar and waits. I could feel the fucker watchin’ me the whole time. Then some guy walks in, right up to the kid, and pushes him off the fuckin’ stool. Calls him a stupid little bastard, I think there was something about a donkey. Next thing I know they guys spins round on me.”

Ian held his breath, pulled back at bit to give Mickey some breathing room. 

“He walks up to the bar, stares me out, and I know I can’t look away like a bitch, right? Felt like forever, but eventually he hols out his hand and wants me to shake it.”

“Did you?”

Mickey laughed. “Well, yeah. The fuck did you think I’d do?”

“Then what?”

“Turns out he was the kid's uncle, and they were real high up in the cartel. Recruited me then and there. Some basic selling and distribution which I already told you about, then I worked my way up to the books.”

“No fuckin’ way. They let you keep the books? I thought they like, hired people from Switzerland for that or somethin’?”

“Nah I wasn’t their accountant or anything. I just cast an eye over them and made sure everything was in order. No one was siphoning money where they weren’t supposed to, or stealing product, whatever.”

Ian leaned back against the wall, bracketing Mickey with his legs. “And that’s how you got such a good deal? You got the feds the books?”

Mickey shook his head. “I passed on some information from the books, but didn’t give ‘em up. It got them some of the main guys, buyers, sellers, one of their main connections in the US - all of it.”

“Why?” And that, really, was what Ian really wanted to know. Why did Mickey give up his freedom in Mexico, to be locked up in here with Ian. 

To his surprise, Mickey grinned wide and tongued his teeth. “Oh you’re gonna love this. I was sellin’ some E when these fuckin’ guys, man. May as well have been wrapped in rainbow flags, they stood out loud and fuckin’ proud. They come down this alley and guess what one of ‘em was wearing?”

Ian felt his cheeks burn as he distinctly remembered some of his old followers plastering his face and the words Gay Jesus on some t-shirts. He’d felt flattered and justified at the time. Now he just wanted to track them all down and set them on fuckin’ fire. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey leered. “He told me all about Gay Jesus saving queer kids, blowing up one van at a time.”

Ian kicked him lightly. “Asshole. How did you know I’d be here, though?”

Mickey thumbed his nose and fought down a blush of his own. “I didn’t. I just told the feds that the deal was I got put in the same prison and the same cell as Ian Gallagher. That, and my bullshit attempted murder charges were dropped and they looked over the whole, escaped from prison, thing.”

Mickey Milkovich with the silver tongue. Ian could barely believe him sometimes. He smiled, peeled his way off the wall and crawled up to Mickey’s side. “So what you’re saying is,” he murmured, “We’re kinda golden round here?”

Mickey shoved him and laid back, head on his pillow. “We? What fuckin’ we? _We_ did shit. _I_ did everything. Your lucky ass is just along for the ride.”

Propping his head up on his hand, and toyed with Mick’s zipper. He tugged it down a little, scratching his nails over the exposed skin. He saw the tip tops of the letters _Ian Gallagher_ peeking above Mickey’s tank, and traced hem gently. He pressed his lips to Mickey’s clothed shoulder and murmured, “Definitely lucky, not denyin’ that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> No tan rápido, pequeño hijo de puta!: Not so fast, you little-dicked motherfucker!  
> Tómalo con calma, hombre: Take it easy, man.  
> Pecas: Freckles  
> Si no quieres que su bonita cara sea golpeada: if you don't want his pretty face to get beaten

**Author's Note:**

> Translations via google translate.  
> Set in the same universe as 'Tying the Knot' series.


End file.
